Masquerade
by Chailyn Cole Runewood
Summary: Draco has done exactly the wrong thing, and Hermione has sworn to get even with him. How far will Hermione go for revenge? What did Draco do to tee her off so badly, anyway? And what was Dumbledore thinking, having a SlytherinGryffindor Masquerade?


**Summary: Draco has done exactly the wrong thing, and Hermione has sworn to get even with him. How far will Hermione go for revenge? What did Draco do to tee her off so badly, anyway? And what was Dumbledore thinking, having a Slytherin-Gryffindor Masquerade?**

**Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter nor any of the books or characters mentioned throughout the coarse of the story.

* * *

**

"That is the last straw!" Hermione surged up from her seat, her brown curls flaring around her face as her chocolate eyes sparkled with rage. "I have put up with you for seven years; I'm not going to do it anymore!" She slung her bag over her shoulder, and the entire class watched in bemused shock as she stormed out of their Potions lesson. Even Professor Snape—or, perhaps, _especially_ the Potions Master—was floored by the Head Girl's outburst. She'd had her fits of temper, yes . . . but the last time she'd walked out of a class had been when she'd quit Divination in her third year.

After a moment, the Head of Slytherin House recovered. "Well? Get back to work. Mr. Malfoy, go work with Mr. Longbottom and Miss Parkinson, and kindly attempt not to enrage any other of my students before the end of the lesson."

Draco glared, but moved over to work with Neville and Pansy. Both of them had been a shock, getting into the NEWT level class, but nothing had been more shocking than Neville's progress since his fifth year—until Hermione had stormed out today. And, from the look of things over at Harry and Millicent's cauldron, the Slytherin-Gryffindor pairs Severus had carefully arranged at the headmaster's request were working every bit as poorly as he'd told Albus they would. The old man was so bent on all the houses working together, ending the house rivalry . . . but Severus didn't see how it could ever work.

* * *

Hermione was still fuming at dinner. Everyone at the Gryffindor table was giving her a wide margin; the ferocity with which she was attacking her roll was terrifying. 

"I'll get even with him if it's the last thing I do!" she hissed, glaring at her dinner before skewering her shepherd's pie and taking a bite. "Stupid bloody git, I will _not_ put up with him any more!"

"Hermione?"

"What?"

Ron flinched away from Hermione; that fork looked dangerous. "Isn't it . . . isn't it a bit . . . well . . . _stupid_—"

"Oh, now I'm _stupid_, am I?"

Ron instinctively raised his hands protectively. "No, not at all! You're the brightest witch here, everyone knows that!" And Ron retreated.

"If I could have your attention for a moment, I have an announcement to make." The hall fell slowly silent, and Professor Dumbledore beamed at the students for a moment before continuing. "This Friday, there will be a masquerade. Or, more specifically, fourteen masquerades. Each year will have two, one for each of two houses. " There was a general squeal from the girls, and Dumbledore held up his hand for silence. "With the short notice, I know many of you are worrying about things like dates and costumes. Neither will be needed; you will be designing your costumes in class, and there will be no way for you to recognize your date if you arrange one." There was a shocked murmur, and the headmaster smilingly waited for silence to fall once more. "For the house partnerships for the ball, I wish to return to the very beginning of this school and pair the best of friends. Ravenclaw will go with Hufflepuff; Slytherin with Gryffindor. Each Masquerade will have a theme announced in their first class in the morning."

As Dumbledore sat, there was a general uproar, though nowhere was it louder or angrier than from the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables. Everyone was standing, shouting—everyone except Hermione Granger.

The dread that had been gathering since the headmaster began his announcement had finally settled in the pit of her stomach. She would not be able to avoid Draco Malfoy . . .

A frighteningly wicked smile spread across Hermione's full rosy lips. Malfoy would not be able to avoid her, and it would be much easier for her to find out his costume than for him to find out hers. Pansy Parkinson had been rather firmly under her thumb for the last year, after all, and she was sure to find out what Malfoy was wearing—the girl was an obsessive airhead. Revenge may be a dish best served cold, but Hermione had never had that much patience. Friday was three days away, and it would be the perfect chance.

When things settled down, Harry was the first to notice Hermione's suddenly cheery demeanor. There was something about the little smile playing on her face that was frightening . . .

* * *

"Pansy, how lovely to see you," Hermione purred, leaning on the sink next to the one the Slytherin girl was inspecting herself over. "If you can tear your eyes from that mirror for a moment, I have a question for you." 

Pansy glared bitterly at Hermione. "Last time you had a question for me, Millicent woke up with warts."

"Quite so," Hermione said smoothly. "And you cannot deny that she deserved them. Besides, they were easy enough to get rid of, weren't they?"

Pansy snorted. "Too easy; I had hoped that she would be stuck with them for a while at least."

"Well, this is a much simpler question, Pansy. All I want to know is what character your darling Draco is going as tomorrow night."

"Why on earth would you want to know that?"

"So that I can avoid the git, Pansy," Hermione lied bluntly. "I do not want to spend one second more around Draco bloody Malfoy than I have to."

Pansy looked slightly relieved. "He's going as Erik Lunt. Erik is the title character of a Muggle book he was laughing over a couple of weeks ago." She rolled her eyes at Hermione's blank look. "He's a famous wizard, if rather twisted. I'd think you of all people would know of the trap-door lover, the prince of conjurers, the angel of music . . ."

"The phantom of the opera," Hermione breathed. "That was the book, wasn't it? _The Phantom of the Opera_ by Gaston Leroux. I had no idea that Erik was real."

"You are the bright one, aren't you? Yes, _The Phantom of the Opera_. The depiction of Erik was startlingly accurate."

"Well, that _is_ interesting. I've read the book, so Malfoy should be easy enough to avoid. Thank you, Pansy; that's all I need." Smirking in a way that made Pansy's blood run cold, Hermione left. Pansy couldn't help but wonder if she'd just been had by the Mudblood—_again_.

* * *

On Friday night the seventh year Slytherins and Gryffindors were shuffled into a largish empty classroom decorated tastefully in green and gold, "Muggle Fiction" ornately scripted on the blackboard. They had been separated during their preparation, and so there was no way to know if the person next to you was even in the same house, much less who they were. No one looked the same, but Hermione could pick out a few people from the help she'd given them with their costumes in class. 

There was Harry. His hair was longer, his forehead was smooth, and the eyes peering out from the small midnight velvet half mask that matched his outfit perfectly were a startling silver. He had needed Hermione's help to perfect his vision. He was Vanyel Askevron; he had told Hermione that he'd read Mercedes Lackey's fictitious trilogy about the last Herald-Mage the summer before, and had identified strongly with Vanyel—"even if the character does swing the other way." Harry certainly seemed to be enjoying the effect his drop-dead-gorgeous costume was having on the girls, and he really hadn't had to make all that many changes. He also was undoubtedly relieved that none of the girls knew that he was really Harry Potter, and that he might have a chance to get to know some of them better without having them know who he was.

Standing nervously against the wall was Neville; his face was what he had needed Hermione's help with. He had a paper mask, but you could not see it under the enchantments Hermione had helped him layer onto it. His eyes were black and bottomless, his face a bleached white skull, and his voice . . . his voice would sound as final as the lid of a granite sarcophagus closing. Ripped straight from the pages of Terry Pratchett's _Disk World_, he was Death.

Flirting shamelessly with Harry was Blaise Zabini, dressed up as Elayne from Robert Jordan's _Wheel of Time_. Her blond hair had been transformed into a cascade of red-gold curls. She looked stunning, but she hadn't been able to get the effect she had wanted for the channeling. In desperation, she had turned to the biggest know-it-all in Hogwarts, and now she appeared to glow to the girls in the room; the boys would feel a tingle in her presence that had nothing to do with the pretty face behind the golden half mask.

Others Hermione recognized, though she had no way of knowing who most of them were. There was Charles Wallace from _A Swiftly Tilting Planet_; over there was Titiana from Shakespeare's _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. In a corner, Cinderella and Prince Charming had found each other. There, Willow Rosenburg's red hair made her look quite a bit like a Weasley. Hermione was certain that the boy flirting with her was Ron; he hadn't managed to change his hair color, and had been too proud to ask Hermione for help. She thought he was supposed to be Matt from _Her Majesty's Wizard_.

Hermione herself was Danica Shardae from _Hawksong_ and _Snakecharm_ by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes. She was pleased with herself; anyone who had read the books would be able to recognize her as the young Tuuli Thea. Her hair fell in golden waves to her waist, and her eyes were the gold of a hawk's. Golden hawk feathers sprouted from the base of her neck, and her gown and jewelry were exact replications of the pieces that Danica had worn to the ceremonies proclaiming her Tuuli Thea and naming her Zane Cobriana's Naga. The only alteration she had needed to make was the addition of a mask, and the gold-and-garnet trimmed burgundy half mask she had finally fashioned was perfect for the costume. She had practiced walking and standing like the Tuuli Thea, and with her voice magically altered to sound more like she thought Danica's would there was no way for anyone to recognize her.

Finally, Hermione caught sight of the person she was looking for. A simpering Queen Pheresa was attempting to flirt with the obviously annoyed angel of music; Hermione almost laughed at how obvious Pansy was being. Catching Malfoy's mismatched eyes over Pansy's head, Hermione let her amusement show. Malfoy shook Pansy and strode over to Hermione; the Gryffindor girl could barely contain her glee, for her plan was working already. As he walked toward her, she inspected his costume; Hermione had to admit that she was impressed. He looked very good in the tailored tuxedo he wore, and the black fedora pulled low over his face combined with his black cape made him look quite dashing. His mask was utter perfection; bone white, it covered most of his head, just like Erik's had in the book.

"You seemed a bit overwhelmed with Pheresa," Hermione said dryly, the difference between her current voice and what she was used to hearing shocking her slightly.

"Is that who she was supposed to be?"

A pleasant shiver ran down Hermione's spine at the sound of Malfoy's magically altered voice; he sounded perfect, just as Erik had. "I'm fairly certain, though she could have been a queen from some other bit of drivel. I only read _The Queen's Gambit_ once, and I was too sick to read anything more in depth at the time."

"I see. And who are you supposed to be?"

"Danica Shardea, Tuuli Thea of the avians and Naga of the serpiente."

"Ah."

"You have no idea who that is."

"That would be it."

Hermione nodded, smiling and hoping the expression didn't seem too catlike. "So, you're Erik."

"I see you've either read _The Phantom of the Opera_ or you know your history."

"One or the other."

"I see."

The music started, and Hermione smiled. "Vanyel over there certainly won't have any problem finding partners," she told Malfoy.

Malfoy sneered. "Indeed not. The lot of them are drooling all over his feet."

"He hasn't exaggerated how the character looks at all," Hermione informed him, attempting to stifle a laugh at the look on Malfoy's face; his obvious jealousy of Harry was priceless. "Except in the book Vanyel found the female attention annoying."

Malfoy snorted, smirking at Hermione. "I suppose you're going to run over there and start swooning with the rest of them."

"Not planning on it."

"Well, then, will you dance with me?"

Nothing could have fit her plan better. Attempting to look less gleeful than she felt, Hermione accepted.

* * *

"So, if I tear off your mask, will you be horribly deformed?" 

"I felt no need to be that authentic with my costume," Malfoy told Hermione dryly.

"Didn't feel like it, or couldn't?"

Malfoy snorted. "Didn't feel like it."

"Would you admit it if you couldn't?"

"No."

Hermione laughed; her eyes sparkling. _Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly . . ._ "That arrogant, are you?"

"I have a certain level of pride, and a family name to maintain."

"Really? What does that mean to you?"

"I don't associate with those in lower social circles, for one thing."

"Except possibly tonight."

"Well, you seem educated enough; I'm simply hoping that you don't turn out to be anyone embarrassing and using you to keep away from Pa—Pheresa. Unlike her, you can hold a conversation about something other than fashion."

"Anyone who would dress up like Pheresa has to be an airhead, and possibly more of one than Pheresa."

"That describes her perfectly; I have no idea how she found out who I was coming as."

"Probably stalking you."

"I've known she was stalking me since shortly after the Yule Ball. I just manage to outmaneuver her most of the time."

"You'll just have to get craftier."

"I suppose so. Hmm, she's laying it on a little heavy over there."

Hermione glanced in the direction Malfoy indicated; Blaise seemed determined to win over Harry—or, at least, Vanyel Ashkevron. "She's scaring him."

"Undoubtedly. I have a good guess who she is." He smirked. "We'll see at midnight."

Hermione nodded, trying again to suppress her catlike smirk. "There are a great many things we'll see at midnight." It was only an half an hour off, and by that time she would have everything she needed to get even with Draco Malfoy. He was eyeing her sideways at the moment, trying to pretend to be interested in Pansy's obvious attempts to make him jealous by flirting with Harry more than Blaise was. "Curious about something?"

"Just wondering how I managed to go through almost seven years here without talking to you once." He smirked. "Though that answer is obvious. You're undoubtedly a Gryffindor."

"And you're a Slytherin. There's a chance we have spoken, though I doubt it was ever polite."

Draco nodded, smiling. "Well, perhaps we'll speak again. The old bat in charge is determined to unify the school. The Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry has been going on for a thousand years."

"But you have just admitted that you'd be willing to talk to a Gryffindor; maybe he'll be able to do it."

"He may be mad, but he's a genius." Malfoy shrugged. "Maybe he will."

* * *

"It's almost midnight," Malfoy said lazily. "In under five minutes, we are to remove our masks, which will also take with them all the alterations we've made on ourselves." 

"I intend to keep mine; I'm rather fond of this costume. And the dress is to die for."

"Quite, and the color is very flattering. I assume it is as flattering on you when you're yourself?"

"I like to think so."

"Well, we'll see in . . ." Malfoy paused, checking his watch, "two minutes."

"Indeed we will."

A minute passed in silence, and then something happened that Hermione could in no way have prepared herself for. Draco Malfoy, the biggest arse in Hogwarts, pulled her to him and kissed her. For a moment she could not move from pure shock, but then she shoved him away, pulling herself from his arms.

"I suppose I should have asked," Malfoy said, sounding honestly sheepish. "But . . . well . . .." he gestured at the clock behind him, which at that moment struck midnight.

Glaring as Malfoy removed his mask, Hermione pulled her own off. Her hair was instantly shorter, and both her eyes and hair returned to their usual brown. When she hissed at the shell-shocked Malfoy, ignoring the various noises from the girls who had just discovered Harry's identity, the voice was her own. "I have everything you've said tonight recorded, Malfoy—I have proof of you being not only civil but _friendly_ to me."

Malfoy was quickly recovering from his shock, and his gray eyes looked like thunderheads about to burst. "You set that all up to humiliate me, Granger!"

"Quite! That should teach you to say things like you did in Potions three days ago!"

"What? That you're pretty when you're angry?"

* * *

**Author's Note: cackles gleefully Yes, I'm evil, aren't I? Because guess what? That's it. There will be no more.**


End file.
